


#47 Voodoo

by theskywasblue



Series: 100 days, 100 prompts [33]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 22:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10173485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: This went on way longer than I meant it to.  Also I don't actually know shit about voodoo, except for the touristy bent so everything herein is purposely vague.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This went on way longer than I meant it to. Also I don't actually know shit about voodoo, except for the touristy bent so everything herein is purposely vague.

_La Croix’s_ had a sign in the door: _We’re Closed_ , in an elegant, looping, handwritten script of ink so deeply red it was almost black. It was also written, with equal ornamentation, in French: _Nous Sommes Fermé_. The familiar, smiling skull logo was carefully hand-painted underneath. With the lights out, the shop looked more ominous than Gavin remembered: the eyes of dolls watching him from their perfectly arranged little shelves, the endless rows of delicate glass bottles containing unknown substances, the beads, bones, and intricately painted candles, even the hanging plants, like some vast, indoor jungle. He was sure he could smell the ash, spice and woodsmoke smell of it, from his place on the icy sidewalk.

He clued in, at last, that he wasn’t supposed to deliver to the shop itself. _La Croix’s_ , like _The Crossing_ , had a private entrance, just around the side, marked by a deep green door, in need of a fresh coat of paint.

It took significant juggling for Gavin to free up a hand enough to reach the buzzer, and then he seemed to wait forever, shivering in the growing cold, inhaling the rich and slightly oily smell of April’s cooking before the door finally creaked open.

He was expecting Mr. La Croix, but instead it was a woman, maybe the tallest he had ever seen, with close-cropped hair and gold-painted lips. She wore a long, flowing wrap of golden cloth, and bare toes peeked out from underneath the hem.

“Oh, they sent us a cute one,” she grinned, showing large, intensely white teeth. She had an accent Gavin couldn’t even begin to place. “Come in, then.”

Gavin, feeling himself blushing, his cheeks hot against the cold wind, ducked his head behind the tower of takeout, ignoring the way it caused his glasses to fog up. He didn’t think about April’s warning until he had already crossed the threshold, toed off his shoes and started climbing the stairs: _just get the money and come back, don’t go inside._

He glanced back, but the door was firmly closed behind him, so he swallowed his heart, and kept climbing.

He emerged in a candle-lit room, filled with a motley assortment of thrift store furnishings - two sofas, with different, loud, floral patterns, numerous mismatched wooden chairs, and an enormous white leather recliner, like a throne. All were occupied by an equally motley assortment of people, at least a dozen, all dressed as if for a formal dinner party. Almost all of them were smoking, and the air was so thick with it that Gavin’s eyes burned. Mr. La Croix was sitting in the grand white chair, one long leg crossed over the other; he too, had bare feet. They all did. Gavin was suddenly, keenly aware of his big toe poking through the hole in his left sock.

“Come in, come in,” La Croix boomed, waving his hands, grandly. “Look, everyone - the food has finally arrived.”

Every single pair of eyes in the room turned, and locked directly on Gavin. He felt himself start to sweat, underneath his jacket. He glanced around, desperate to find a place to set down his increasingly heavy cargo, but every surface seemed to be occupied.

La Croix rose from the chair, slowly, deliberately, with the loose-limbed grace of a dancer, crossed the floor in three, long-legged strides, and lifted the box from Gavin’s arms as if it weighed nothing at all. There was a moment where Gavin almost went with it, his fingers pressed to tightly into the cardboard.

“What do I owe?” La Croix asked. When Gavin didn’t answer immediately, he glanced at the bill that April had stapled to the largest bag; then he reached into the pocket of his one-size-too-small suit jacket, and produced a handful of dirt.

“Oops!” he laughed, tossing it back over his shoulder. His company laughed, raucously, as if the flying dirt scattering across the plush carpet was the funnies thing they had ever seen in their lives. The white flashes of their teeth in their deep, red mouths made something inside Gavin shiver, and he stepped back, involuntarily.

“Don’t run off yet,” La Croix chided. This time, reaching into another pocket, he produced a handful of carefully folded bills and counted them off one at a time. “April would never allow me to get away without paying my due.”


End file.
